In My Daughter's Eyes
by Laura Schiller
Summary: Dombey and Son. The first Mrs. Dombey gives Florence one last piece of advice.


In My Daughter's Eyes

_In my daughter's eyes, I can see the future:  
a reflection of who I am and what will be.  
Though she'll grow and someday leave,  
maybe raise a family,  
when I'm gone I hope you see  
how happy she made me …  
for I'll be there  
in my daughter's eyes._

- Martina McBride, "In My Daughter's Eyes"

"Mama?" said Florence, in a whisper as hushed as a five-year-old could make it, as she crept into her mother's enormous, shadowy bedroom. From her four-poster bed with its dark velvet curtains and the tower of pillows at her back, Fanny Dombey could just make out the child's pale, anxious face.

"Susan said I wasn't to come in and worry you," Florence confided, her wide brown eyes flicking from side to side as if on the watch for her hot-tempered guardian. "But I missed you so. Am I worrying you?"

"Not a bit." Fanny held out her arms. "Come here, my darling."

Florence ran across the room, climbed onto the bed and snuggled in, exclaiming in surprise at the changes in her mother's figure. The vigilance of Dr. Pilkins, Dr. Parker Peps and Mr. Dombey during Fanny's confinement, combined with the latter's strict orders to Susan Nipper to keep Florence out of the way, had ensured that mother and daughter saw even less of each other than before.

"Why, Mama, you keep getting bigger!"

For the first time in weeks, Fanny laughed. "I suppose I am."

"But why? Are you ill?"

Fanny kissed the top of her daughter's head, as much to comfort herself as to calm her.

"Oh, no," she said lightly, trying not to feel dishonest. "Of course not. I am very well. Has no one explained to you what is happening?"

Florence's curls shook in the negative. "Only that you must not be worried, and something very im-port-ant is happening. No one tells me anything!" She wound up with a hint of a whine; only around her mother was she comfortable enough to make demands or argue like most children, a mixed blessing which said a great deal about the dynamics of this household.

"How would you like it, Floy, if I told you your little brother or sister was growing inside there?"

"Really?"

Florence backed away to the edge of the bed, her eyes wide, as if Fanny's rounded stomach contained a loaded pistol.

"Really and truly, darling."

"Inside of you?"

"Yes. Don't be afraid, Floy. Think of a seed in the warm earth, growing slowly until it opens its petals to the sky. Children are like that. I carried you this way, once."

Florence listened with one finger in her mouth, and the deep fascination of children and scientists, as Fanny did her best to frame an explanation appropriate to the little girl's age. She wondered if Florence would even remember this conversation, but as rare as their time together was, would be senseless to waste it.

"Will it happen to _me_?" Florence asked.

"Perhaps one day, but not until you are grown. Not until you are married, like – " _your Papa and I_, she was about to say, but the words choked her.

It was all too easy to picture her daughter growing up like herself, broken to heel like a horse. Married off to the first prestigious peer with whom Mr. Dombey wanted a connection, regadless of his character or her own choices. Pressured from all directions to bear sons, whether she wanted them or not. Fanny squeezed her eyes shut to force away the memories of Mr. Dombey's red, perspiring face, his heavy weight above her.

"What is 'married'?" asked Florence.

It was a good question, and deserved the best of answers. Mr. Dombey would have said that marriage was a contract: the provision of an heir in exchane for status and security. Louisa Chick would have called it a duty. Fanny considered long and deeply before she spoke.

"When a man and a woman are married, it means that they promise to live together, help and support each other for the rest of their lives. When you are old enough, darling, promise me you will find a husband who makes you happy."

She swallowed a knot of tears at the back of her throat, thinking of her first betrothed – the way his laughter carried down the streets like sunshine; the way he used to whirl her around like a top at his parents' dances; the hopeful crispness of his navy uniform the last day she had seen him. Losing that joy had left her so indifferent to her fate, she hadn't even protested at being bargained off to Mr. Dombey by her parents, a mistake she regretted every day.

"Does Papa make _you _happy, Mama?" asked Florence, reaching out to touch the tear sliding inadvertently down Fanny's face. The unchildlike skepticism of that gesture startled her, and for a moment, she was tempted to confess the truth; the bitter, inescapable truth she had kept locked up for so long. _No, Florence, I am not happy. Your father cares no more for me than for an expensive statue, your aunt holds me in contempt, and there is nobody to love me in this world apart from you._

But the child was five years old, and hearing this would only distress her all the more. Besides, if she told anyone else and word got back to Mr. Dombey … Fanny suppressed a shudder by holding Florence even closer.

"He gave me _you_, my little one," she said. "That makes me happy."

They were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door, followed by the entrance of a breathless, tousle-haired Susan, who shattered the moment as effectively as a bull in a china shop.

"Miss Floy, you naughty child! I've been looking for you everywhere! Beg your pardon, Mrs. Dombey, ma'am, but Master insisted you wasn't to be bothered. Miss Floy, get down from that bed right this minute, or there'll be no stories for you tonight!"

"But I want to stay with Mama!"

"Go on, dear," said Fanny, gently detaching Florence from her arms. "I will be all right. Be a good girl and go with Susan."

"_Now_, Miss Floy – or I'll tell your Pa."

Florence climbed down off the bed, abruptly silent. As Susan took her hand to lead her out of the room, she shot a brief, apologetic look back at her mistress. _Orders are orders,_ her black eyes seemed to say. _What can I do?_

Fanny envied the young maid right then. To have the day-to-day duties and joys of looking after Florence, to bathe and dress and speak with her, seemed a luxury. However, she knew beyond a doubt she had made the right choice in hiring her. Florence would need an outspoken champion in this house.

"Promise me, Florence," she repeated. "Someone to make you happy."

"I promise, Mama," were her daughter's last words.


End file.
